Dear Journal,

There is a sickness in my gut. There is a pain that churns and boils. I wonder if this is the very same that plagues the old woman. She does not seem in pain, dear journal. She is just slow. I wonder if she is just hiding her pain, if she even feels any at all. Maybe this is my own sickness. It feels so warm and bubbly all about my body. I lose my breath just from walking across the room. It is very difficult to concentrate with such a burning dizziness. The old woman just quietly tends to me. She should rest more than I, dear journal. I am young and strong and she is old and fading. Perhaps that is why she puts me before herself, dear journal. I have so many years ahead of me and the sand in her hourglass is nearly all gone. If I could talk to her I would tell her to not give up on herself, if that is what she is doing. But I can say nothing to her. Does that make me weak, dear journal? Perhaps words are not needed. I wonder if she knows how much I worry of her passing. My mind keeps going back to thoughts of her. She must know how I worry. How wise she must be! Her knowledge of life is far beyond my own. If she is calm and accepting than I must be as well.

Your ailing friend,

Gideon Kane